


when you knew me like i know you

by robin_hoods



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Erasing memories, Homophobic Language, M/M, Sci Fi Premise, Shameless Big Bang, Slurs, vaguely based on eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's never considered it, wiping his memory. No one to forget, no one he cared enough about -- no need to put more holes in his life. But that's before Ian leaves, before Mickey gets married, before (he thinks) that he's fallen in love.</p><p>And now, what other options does he have? It's not like he's expecting Ian to come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mickey

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally my turn to post my Big Bang! It's my first venture into this fandom, actually, and I'm pretty proud of what I've written. I thought it would be a bit longer, but I'm a really slow writer so it just wasnt happening.
> 
> The [art](http://dooberlane.tumblr.com/post/86404446106/when-you-knew-me-like-i-knew-you-by) was done by the fantastic dooberlane -- I've already seen it and it looks great! Thank you so much for making it <3
> 
> I'd also like to personally thank milominderbinder, who set up the big bang, and magnetic dice. They've both been amazingly supportive throughout it, and I'm not sure if I would've been able to write my fic without our conversations and word wars. Thanks guys! You're the best! <3 (Also, go and read their big bang fics -- they're pretty damn amazing too.)

Mickey doesn't count the days after Ian leaves. He doesn't know it's been three days when Lip comes knocking at their door, asking after his brother; a week when it's his younger sister; almost two when the eldest comes to ask questions he doesn't know how to answer.

“Ian went to enlist, didn't he?” Mandy asks him after he's closed the door in Fiona's face, and he can hear her stomping her feet down the porch. “You should've told her.”

“I don't have to tell her anything,” Mickey says, pushing past her. Mandy warily looks at him from the doorway. “It's not my problem if Gallagher wants to get shot full of lead.” He doesn't see her shake her head, but he hears the front door open and close, not too quietly. The sound of her heels clicking on the sidewalk quickly fades, and Mickey lets himself fall backwards on the couch.

Everyone's on his case to do something, but fuck if he knows what. He's a married man now, right? Or whatever goes for married these days, when he doesn't even sleep in the same bed, has't slept with his wife since-- He rubs a hand over his face, frowning when stubble scrapes over his palm. He should've shaved this morning, but Svetlana was occupying the bathroom and he'd forgotten when Iggy had approached him. The O'Donnell brothers owed them a couple of grand for one reason or another, and they'd said one time too often they'd really get the money this time, really, they would!

Of course that's what they'd say if they stood opposite the infamous Milkoviches. Scared shitless that they'd even smile the wrong way, they were, so Mickey and Iggy had ended up taking some of their guns off their hands. “They probably don't even know how to use them!” Iggy had joked, and Mickey had thought he finally had that again, family he could count on, no matter what.

Who was he kidding, though? Terry hadn't hesitated to go in for the kill, and neither would Iggy, or any of his other brothers, for that matter. It's a good thing they don't know, he thinks while lighting a smoke. He has a wife, a kid on the way that he doesn't want – isn't even sure of if it's his, but hey, life's grand. He's not dead. Terry reminds him his skinny ass should be grateful for that every day. And it's not as if firecrotch is around to pound some sense into him.

He smokes his cigarette till it nearly burns his fingers, and watches the smoke trail to the ceiling in the ashtray while he lights up a new one. Svetlana walks out of the bedroom and settles herself next to him on the couch, although not too close. Close enough to steal a cigarette out of his pack, though.

“Hey, buy your own,” he snaps, irritably.

Her stare is leveled at him, calmer than he feels. “You take care of both of us. I and the baby.”

“The baby needs no fucking smoke in its lungs,” Mickey says. When do babies grow lungs anyway? It's not even a baby anyway. It probably still looks like a peanut.

Svetlana takes a few more drags, stands up and moves back into the bedroom with the cigarette still between her fingers. He can hear her mess around, and a few minutes after that she leaves, slamming the door behind her. Probably for that place posing as a spa. Not that he cares.

Later that night, when she has returned, she says, “We are married, but you are not happy,” Mickey tries to roll over in his sleeping bag, away from her, but her hand on his arm stops him. “This boy, he worries you, no?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he grits out, but she doesn't relent, not like she did at first, when he couldn't even look at her.

“He'll come back,” she says, her voice quiet. “For you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey mumbles. When has anyone ever done that for him?

“You want him to take you away, yes?” He doesn't reply, hope that if he ignores it, she'll go away. But she's in his bed every night, looking at him, staring at him, even when he snarls at her to keep her eyes to herself, if she wants them to stay in her head. “Far, far away,” she continues. “So memories can no longer touch you.” Her voice is getting softer behind him, like she is close to falling asleep.

Maybe he does want to forget. Maybe it'd be better. He sighs, and works up an arm underneath his head, the thought settling in his mind while he drifts to sleep.

When he wakes, Svetlana is gone, but he remembers what she said. That morning, he takes a walk, steps over empty beer cans and bottles, a stray gun someone probably forgot. They know not to let that shit all over the house, in case the cops come over, but they do it anyway. He drops it into his drawer, grabs the nearly empty bottle of milk out of the fridge and finishes it while he jogs off the porch, throwing it into the yard with the other junk when he's done.

He's heard about the clinic, obviously. Everyone's heard of it; it's no big secret that it's there, nestled between a bike store and empty house with boarded up windows. He might have walked past it once or twice, on the way to the Kash and Grab. Joey said he'd been there once, to forget his first girlfriend, but when he'd asked him about it later he hadn't even known what he was talking about – it must've worked. He sits across the street for a while, watches people walk in and out, always looking over their shoulder while he smokes a couple of cigarettes right to the filter before he crushes them underneath his heel. He looks left, then right, and crosses the street to the clinic with the flickering neon lights that advertise 100 percent success.

It kind of looks like a dentists office. Clean, sterile, and blindingly white to his eyes. He squints once or twice, and takes in the empty waiting room. None of the chairs look sturdy enough to sit down on, plastic breaking off at all sides. The few stray magazines lying around are all from last year, or earlier, and the table at the far end is a sad excuse for a desk, but as long as they get the job done, he doesn't really give a damn.

“Yeah?” the woman behind the desk asks him when he approaches.

“I, uh, want an appointment?” he starts, scratching at his cheek while he tries to look anywhere but her face caked with make-up, her eyelashes thick and the blush on her cheeks unnatural underneath the fluorescent lighting.

“With who?” she asks, decidedly unimpressed with his appearance, but this is the South side, she shouldn't be expecting better than this.

“Whoever's available in this shithole,” he replies.

“Depends on what you want to have done,” she says, her tone bored. “We offer relationships, family members, colleagues--”

“Relationship,” he interrupts, “it's about a relationship.” He's not going to go into details about this, doesn't want her to know why he's here. It's not anyone's business but his own.

“Isn't it always?” She sighs. “We have room for a normal appointment in about two months.”

“I don't have two fucking months!” He doesn't want to sit on _that_ couch, day after day, week after week, knowing what happened on it. He doesn't want to keep staring at the door Ian disappeared through, mouthing words he couldn't say – that he still wouldn't be able to, probably. He's a pussy, and he knows it.

“You've survived this long, haven't you?” she deadpans. “Do you want me to pencil you in or not?”

“Sure, fine, whatever.” Any appointment is better than no appointment at all.

“Name?”

“Mickey.”

“Last name?”

“None of your business.”

“All right, Mickey none of my business, come back in two months on the 18th, around 9 in the morning. Will you be paying cash or check?”

“Cash,” he gruffly says, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“That'll be 800 dollars paid in cash. Or do you have a problem with that as well?” She looks up at him in a way she thinks is probably sweet, but it's more condescending than anything else.

“I'll get it.” He knows it doesn't look like he can, because every other person here is dirt poor. If he manages to scrounge up 800 dollars, no one's gonna question where he got it, as long as they get paid. He's actually surprised this place hasn't had a run in with the cops yet, with the way they're blatantly advertising. Who knows, maybe they're actually legal?

When he steps through the door, he thinks he just has to get through these two months. How bad is that going to be? He's in a foul mood when he gets home, kicks the refrigerator shut when he gets a beer, nearly runs into Mandy when he saunters back into the living room. “Move, asshole,” she says, and he grunts some reply in return. She rolls her eyes at him and he flips her off, popping off the lid before he takes a sip. Can't forget just yet, but alcohol is a perfectly good replacement.

He thinks he spends the next two or three weeks perpetually drunk of his ass, smoking in his bed and throwing up in the toilet bowl when his stomach doesn't agree with him. At some point he doesn't even remember why he even started drinking, just mechanically unscrews tops, cracks open cans, until Mandy has seen enough and kicks him into the shower.

“You fucking stink,” she tells him, turning on the cold shower while he's still wearing his clothes. She shuts the door behind her, hard, and Mickey shivers, wide awake now.

She throws a pair of jeans and a shirt he's sure is Iggy's into the bathroom, and reluctantly he gets dressed, a towel damply hanging from his shoulders. His wet clothes are thrown into a corner, and on bare feet he pads into the living room, where Mandy is watching the TV with a plate on her lap. “There's more eggs if you want them,” she tells him without tearing her eyes from the screen, and slowly he makes his way into the kitchen, finding a plate of scrambled eggs waiting for him, already cooled down.

He pours a generous amount of ketchup over them and starts eating while walking back. Mandy's watching some dumb show about women in wedding dresses, and she makes a face at his plate covered in ketchup. When he's done, he puts his dirty plate in the sink and leaves the house. It's been at least six weeks since Ian left. As far as he knows, no one's heard of him. He takes his time strolling underneath the El, kicking up stones and pebbles, and almost bites down on his own tongue when someone calls out, “Hey! Milkovich!”

“What do you want?” he grunts out when Lip Gallagher comes jogging up from behind him, finally catching up.

“Still not dead, huh?” he says, and Mickey frowns. “Guess nothing can really kill a Milkovich.”

“The fuck are you going on about?” Mickey asks.

“Oh, you know,” Lips says, “you, Ian, my brother leaving, the two of you fucking-” He ducks just in time to avoid Mickey's fist, but is too late for him to avoid the knee digging into his stomach. He doubles over, and Mickey kicks him to the ground.

“Shut up!” he spits out. “Shut the fuck up. I'm not some-- some fucking--”

“Faggot,” Lip says, and this is the exact thing you should never say to Mickey Milkovich. Not on any other day, at least. He stumbles back and wipes his mouth, his eyes wide. “Hit too close to home, huh?” Lip continues, undeterred. “Ian still hasn't come home, hasn't sent anything but a lousy text message, telling us he's 'fine' and 'doing great'. Where did he go, Mickey?”

“Why do you think I'd know that?”

Lip scrambles up from the dirt, touching his nose and frowning when his fingers come back bloody. “If there's anyone he would have told... sad to say, it's probably you.”

“He'll come back, eventually,” Mickey said. “He's southside.” He slipped a cigarette between his lips. “Once southside, always southside.”

“How poetic,” Lip drily said. “Now are you gonna help me out, or are you gonna be an ass forever?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “The army, okay? He thought he could sign his underage ass up for the army. Said he had a way around it.” He pauses to take a drag. “Haven't heard from him since. He probably doesn't want to see my face anyway.”

“Shit.” Lip runs a hand over his face. “He probably didn't mention how he was gonna pull that one off, did he?”

“Nope,” Mickey says. “You got any more questions? I've got stuff to do.” He watches Lip walk across the street, then disappear behind a few blocks of houses. Stuff to do, yeah. Probably getting drunk again, or high. He snorts, and crushes his cigarette beneath his boot. The only one who really cares about that crap is Mandy, anyway, and that's only because she wants her best friend back. Somehow she's convinced Mickey can do that – it's his fault Ian's gone, after all.

Eventually, he makes his way back to the Milkovich house. Mandy is no longer sitting on the couch, as his dad is once again passed out and occupying it, several empty beer bottles scattered around. Mickey kicks one of them aside, and slams the door to his room shut. He won't care about getting Ian back in a matter of weeks. Soon enough, he won't even care about Ian at all. It's just what he needs. To forget.

 

*

 

The weeks pass terribly slowly. The minutes crawl by, hours are like days. Mickey knows he's waiting. For some kind of end, or closure, or whatever the hell people call that shit about sharing your feelings and feeling _better_. Mickey doesn't need to talk, or visit some therapist sticking their nose where it doesn't belong.

He doesn't need them to tell him anything, because he already knows. It's like the pain has rooted itself so deeply inside of him, the only way to get rid of it is to weed out the entire plant. He can't look around his house without remembering stuff he'd rather not. He couldn't even look at the couch, at first, preferred staring straight past it, because he could recall all too well how it had felt underneath his bare skin. Now, he sits down at it like none of it ever happened, like it's already been erased from his memory.

He can't get rid of the other reminders, though. Svetlana still lives in this house, stares at him intensely when she thinks he doesn't notice, as if she can pull thoughts from his mind simply by looking at him. Not like he's ever gonna tell her anything. She already knows enough. Too much.

Mickey spends his time convincing himself it's better. Gallagher isn't gonna come back, he fucked off to the army for who knows how long, and he needs to look after himself. But no matter how often he keeps telling himself that, he doesn't really believe it. After all, if he'd done that in the first place, he wouldn't be where he is right now. He wouldn't even be considering erasing his fucking memories, he knows. Fuck it all. Fuck everything. If Gallagher hadn't left, he wouldn't even be thinking about this.

Subconsciously, he rubs at his wedding ring, twisting it over his ring finger. He knew this marriage was a sham, he'd fucking been there. It doesn't mean anything, not to Mickey at least, and still...

He needs to do this. It's not worth it to waste time being hung up over Gallagher's ass. He didn't love him, it wasn't anything more than a good fuck every once in a while. Besides, he'll always be stuck here. Like he told Lip, weeks ago. Once southside, always southside. And no one's gonna change that.

 

*

 

When the eighteenth rolls around, finally, he feels strangely apprehensive. He's about to get wiped. He can finally have a clean slate. Start over. Mostly, anyway. Sometimes he wonders what it'd be like, to live in some other place where no one knows him, where no one knows the Milkoviches. If he ever shared the fantasy with anyone, they'd laugh in his face.

That morning, he gets dressed. He wears a clean shirt, for once, pulls on the cleanest pair of pants he owns. He leaves the house before anyone else is even up. It's only seven, so it's way too early, but he hasn't been able to sleep, staring at the ceiling, waiting for morning to roll around. When the clock showed 6.30, he finally had had enough and got out of bed.

He nicks some baked bread from a supermarket, then slowly makes his way to the street where the clinic is. People hurry over the sidewalk to get to their morning shifts, occasionally bumping into him. His scarf swings from one side to the other, and he takes a bite out of the bread, tearing a piece off with his teeth.

“Hey, watch where you're going,” he snaps at one person nearly running him over. Fucking pedestrians, he thinks when he gets the finger in return.

He takes position across the street from the clinic, staring at the door. Lights are still off, no one's there yet. He has no idea when they do open up, maybe only around nine. Or eight? Who knows. He doesn't have a watch, so he has no idea what time it is. But he can see the clock hanging in the office, so he knows it's still way too early. He's never nervous for anything, usually, but this? He almost wishes he was still home, in bed. But it's too late to turn back now.

A few minutes before nine, when the light has been on inside for a while, he pushes the door to the clinic open, money sitting in his pocket. The same woman is sitting behind the makeshift desk. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks, and he nods. “Name?”

“Mickey.”

“Oh, yes. Mickey none of my business.” She briefly smiles, for the first time. “I assume you have the money?” He nods once more, and digs into his pocket to get the wad of cash out. She finally gets up, counts the bills – all fifty dollar ones – and nods approvingly when it's the right amount. “Doctor Jenkins will be with you shortly. You can sit and wait for him here.” She nods in the directing of the plastic chairs surrounding a small table with out-of-date magazines.

The chair protests when he sits down, and he fidgets with the hem of his shirt while he waits for the guy that's supposed to help him. He knows how it works. The guy will ask him to sign a form, they inject him with some stuff that'll apparently make him hallucinate, and when he wakes up, his memories will be gone. Sounds simple enough. As long as he has no hangover, or weird side-effects, or an allergic reaction, he should be fine.

A bald man with a large red beard enters the room through a door behind the desk, and smiles broadly because (Mickey assumes) a client is right on time, for once. “Follow me,” he says.

The back room isn't brightly lit, doesn't look like a doctor's office at all. There are two lamps on either side of a couch, a comfortable chair next to it. A large cabinet sits against the wall beside the door. “Have a seat,” the doctor points. When he sits down, he immediately sinks too far into the couch, the springs overused. One of them is poking him in the leg.

“My name is Dr. Jenkins, as you might know. We set this facility up here in order to help people, and to--”

“Cut the crap and get to the point,” Mickey says, and crosses his arms. The doctor smiles again, and it's starting to annoy Mickey. Like he's having some kind of in-joke, privately making fun of him. He certainly doesn't look like he should be living here, with his nice smile and glasses and carefully folded hands.

“Since you're so eager to start,” the doctor continues while he stands up, “I assume you know what we're doing here.” He opens the cabinet next to the door, and, as Mickey had predicted earlier, takes out a wad of papers. When he's signed his name on them a dozen times (“Liability,” the doctor explains, as if Mickey's never heard of that), they can finally get started with what he's here for.

“I do have to ask, once more: are you sure about this?”

“Yeah,” is the only thing Mickey says. 's Not like firecrotch is gonna walk through that door anytime soon, he thinks.

The leather couch is cold and sticks to the bare skin of his arms. The doctor, or medical examiner or whatever the fuck he is reaches for the side-table, puts on some latex gloves, and ties off Mickey's arm while he warily watches him.

“I encourage you to lie down,” the man says, the bristles of his moustache moving as he speaks. “The experience is disorienting for most people, and some become dizzy or nauseous while the medication does its work.” The doctor raises an eyebrow at him when he doesn't move, and Mickey drags his legs up the couch, shoes included.

He knows it's dangerous, what he's about to do. Can't tell what's in the bottle the guy just drew the needle from, flicking the needle twice before he re-seats himself at Mickey's side. It's better than a back alley wipe, though. At least here he's fairly certain the needles are clean and they know what they're doing.

The needle sliding into his arm is only painful for a few seconds, before he finds himself getting used to the sensation. A wad of cotton balls is pressed to the inside of his elbow when the doctor finishes, tying it off with some medical tape. He stands up, Mickey sees him deposit the needle in a box.

The room tilts dangerously, the lamp hanging above the floor brightening, and Mickey squints his eyes, trying to get the room to stop spinning. He tries to pull himself into a sitting position, but finds himself pressed back down again into the pillow.

“You're a stubborn one, aren't ya?” he hears the doctor say, but he can't see him, only hears the smile in his voice. “Didn't I tell you you need to stay down?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, but this time he stays low. Ian stands in the doorway, watching him, a scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Don't what?” he asks, and something in Mickey's chest tightens, curdles his insides while he tries to choke out the words he knows he should've said a long time ago. Instead, Ian shakes his head disappointedly, and disappears down the hall.

“No!” Mickey calls after him, hears the ticking of the clock, the squelch of the doctor's leather shoes on the tile. “Don't... don't go.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Mick,” Ian says from between his bare legs, and Mickey blinks, looks back up to the doorway where Ian just disappeared. Ian's still sitting there when he looks back to him, one of his hands touching Mickey's bare knee. He remembers this.

They're not supposed to be on a couch, but some kind of table, and Mickey can see the light reflecting in Gallagher's hair, turning it a bright orange. “The fuck are you doing?” His mouth moves on its own, and Ian smiles widely.

“Nothing.”

Mickey finds himself shaking his head, because fuck if this is nothing, but he still gives in, his fingers curling against the table cold underneath his bare ass. It's kind of ridiculous, he finds himself thinking, how easy it is for Ian to just lift him up, to put him wherever he likes, to make him do whatever he wants.

“Hello, boys.”

Mickey stops breathing. If he keeps his eyes closed, none of it is real. Not Frank's self-satisfied smile at their shocked expressions, the fear of being found out, the Gallagher patriarch running his mouth off to whoever is drunk enough to listen.

When he opens his eyes again, Ian is gone, along with the Kash and Grab and the drink cooler and the peeling wall behind his back. He yawns, feeling drowsy, and moves to lie down. Instead, he rolls onto his front on his own bed, in his own bedroom. Confused, he looks up. “Gallagher?”

“The gun, Mickey,” Ian grits out, holding out his crowbar as a weapon.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and crawls up, reaching for the nightstand until he turns and launches himself at the redhead in the bedroom.

Instead of being thrown against the wall, though, Ian laughs against his ear. “D'you really want me that much?”

What? Mickey thinks, but says, “Shut the fuck up. Get on the bed.” Ian raises an eyebrow at him, makes a slow deliberate show of taking off his shirt, like it's something Mickey hasn't seen before.

“You wanna chit chat some more, or get on me?” Ian parrots him, putting his arms behind his head. Mickey finds himself grinning, turns to get the lube from the nightstand and the sunlight is so bright he closes his eyes for a second.

“Can you and sergeant slaughter over help me out with some cases of pop?” Lip Gallagher says, approaching the two of them standing by the register. Mickey listens to the two brothers talk, knows he's supposed to say something here, knows he did, he just can't remember what it was. It's warm inside the store, even next to the coolers, and he longs to just grab a beer and lean back, but he still has work for another few hours, and towelhead won't appreciate him taking anything – he knows she just said so.

The last few boxes and crates are lifted into the ice-cream van, and Ian rolls the back shut while Mickey walks back to the register, the two kids attempting to stuff candy into their pockets long gone. Stupid brats. Even he knew at that age you had to be stealthier than that to get anything. If you weren't, you just had to use your fists to get the point across. Case in point: Frank Gallagher, Ian's good for nothing dad. Mickey only has to raise an eyebrow at him before he hastily retreats, and Mickey rolls his eyes before leaning against the counter.

“So,” Ian says, and Mickey continues to browse through his magazine. He knows something is off, like somebody is creeping up on him, just behind his back, but there's no one in the store beside him and Gallagher – and who in their right mind would sneak up on Mickey Milkovich, anyway?

“So what?” Mickey replies.

“You doing anything tonight?” Ian asks, flipping a page, his question so casual he might as well be asking what Mickey had for breakfast this morning.

“Why?” Mickey asks, suspicious. “You asking me out on a date?”

Ian finally looks up, looking far too amused. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“You better not,” Mickey mutters.

“Just heard the new Expendables movie came out, and wondered if you wanted to sneak in the back to watch it?”

“So no one's buying anything? No boyfriend and girlfriend stuff?”

“Nope.”

Still, Ian looks far too happy when Mickey agrees to go, with the excuse he really wants to see some stuff blown up.

But the door that opens isn't the door to the Kash and Grab, but the front door of the Milkovich house, just as Ian is bowed forward over him. They scramble away from each other, and fear scratches the inside of Mickey's throat. He's gonna kill him – he's gonna kill them both he knows it. He doesn't think twice when he jumps on Terry's back to get him off Ian, doesn't think at all – he should get away, and if there's such a thing as saving in the southside, this is the closest thing to saving somebody Mickey's ever been.

“Shit, are you okay?” Ian asks, leaning over him, the lighting fluorescent and painful to Mickey's eyes.

“Fuck, my leg,” Mickey groans. Kash is still standing there, with the gun raised in his hand, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Mickey hadn't even noticed that the first time around, too focused on the pain and Ian, being in shock (Jesus Christ, who shoots someone over a Snickers bar?).

“You're gonna be fine,” Ian is saying, his face hovering above Mickey's.

Mickey closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he's looking into Svetlana's eyes, the pain in his leg gone. Her hand is tightly grasping his own, and when he dares to look left, he can see Ian from the corner of his eye, hurt and angry. Svetlana is the complete opposite, excited and, shit, she's radiating happiness. It's just a piece of paper, he reminds himself. Nothing but words, their signatures. As if the bitch can even compare to--

“--he's not afraid to kiss me.” Mickey fingers the gun in his hand, itching to pull the trigger again. He doesn't, however, not with Ian staring up expectantly, almost daring him to do it, right now. Mickey Milkovich is many things, but he ain't a pussy. He swings himself off the roof and tucks the gun into the back of his pants. Ian smirks, looking like he's proved himself right, once more. And yeah, maybe Mickey can't afford room service, but at least he's no old man with trouble getting it up. He doesn't even pretend to not check out Gallagher's ass when he bends over to tie his shoelaces. Yeah, he doesn't have any trouble with that at all.

When Gallagher looks back over his shoulder, he takes no time in striding over, blocking the sunlight with his large ginger head. Mickey squints, and in a second or two, Gallagher's hair gets longer and he actually shrinks until they're the same height again; they're in Mickey's room and he's actually leaning forward when Mickey says, “Kiss me and I'll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Ian doesn't try again, simply walks out the door as if he belongs there. Mickey scowls, and drops back down on his bed. What the fuck did he get himself into now?

“Easy now,” a voice says close to his ear. Mickey swats his hand around, but another hand wraps around his wrist and brings it back down, and instinct sets in before he can even think, throwing his weight off his bed (since when is he lying down on a couch?), grabbing the collar of a man with a moustache.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he growls, and only then notices the strange surroundings. “Where the fuck am I? Did you bring me here?”

“You came here of your own accord, Mickey,” the man calmly says. “You came to wipe your memory of someone you knew.” Why would he do that? He doesn't know anyone worth wiping. And he still remembers his wife, his sister, and the rest of his shitty family.

“Don't think it worked,” he says, slowly lifting himself off the man.

“You'll know soon enough,” the man says, and hands over a bucket. Mickey looks at him suspiciously. “Trust me, you'll need it.”

He makes to get up from the floor, and quickly has to sit down again when the contents off his stomach come up and he throws up everything he ate that morning into the bucket. Shakily, he wipes his mouth off when he's done, doing nothing but occasionally dry heave. “You got the time?” he asks when he's drank a glass of water to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth.

“Nearly eleven,” the man says. Mickey doesn't like the way he's smiling, like he knows something Mickey doesn't. “If there are any other complications, don't hesitate to call me.” Mickey stuffs the man's card into his pocket, and nearly throws himself out of the building. It's the smell, he thinks, it's the smell that must've made him queasy. Not the feeling that somehow, there is an itch he can't quite scratch, can't reach, far inside his head. 


	2. Mandy

“Ian's coming back next week,” Mandy says one day while filing her nails, and Mickey turns back to her.

“Who?”

She throws her nail file in the direction of his face. “Don't be such a dickhead.”

“Who the fuck's Ian?” Anger flings through her, and she wishes she hadn't already thrown her nail file at him, because if she hadn't she'd stab his eyes out with it – she can't believe her brother is such an idiot.

“You went through with it?” she asks, her voice pitching higher with every syllable. “You actually did it?” She didn't think he'd have the guts to do it, but here her brother is, a bagel halfway to his mouth, looking at her dumbly, like he doesn't even know what she's talking about.

“Did what?” He's always evading her questions these days, always on the defense. He has no clue what he's done wrong, this time.

“I thought you were better than that,” she hisses, standing up from the couch. “But you're just like the rest of them, aren't you? I suggest you grow a pair, before Ian comes back, and fix everything!” She storms by him, catching the expression on his face just before, confused as hell.

“Fix what? Mandy!” She slams the door behind her, where it rattles in its hinges.

She doesn't know where to go, at first. Ian isn't home yet; Lip doesn't want to see her, not after he let her know Ian was coming back, and she doubts the rest of the Gallaghers want to see her face. Kenyatta fucked off to God knows where; she doesn't care where he went. Everyone eventually disappears. Or dies. Same thing, really. So she knows that at some point, she'll be on her own, left to fend for herself, nothing but the Milkovich name to protect her.

Although that's a lie. She's a Milkovich in blood and bones; she needs no one but herself. She can take care of her own business.

The thing is, she thinks as she crosses underneath the El, not knowing where to walk or where to go, it's not her business. She shouldn't give a shit what Mickey does with his life, what he throws away. She shouldn't, but he's her stupid brother, idiotic enough to wipe his memories because he can't deal. Who does that, anyway? Who the fuck is stupid enough to erase entire people, just because you don't want to think about them anymore?

Mickey is, obviously. She presses her hat onto her head when a strong gust of wind passes, along with the El. Stupid enough to get married to a whore, stupid enough to get her knocked up, stupid enough to sleep with her best friend and stupid enough to forget all about him the moment it gets too hard.

She hasn't even done that herself, hasn't sunk so low to wipe them all away, hasn't considered her boyfriends important enough to even do it. Boys will always stomp on your heart and leave it behind like scrap metal after all. Men are all the same, thinking with their cock and balls, more interested in what hole they can put it next, consequences be damned.

She can't stop herself, however, from her feet taking her to the Gallagher house – it's more of a home than her own. She lets herself in through the fence, walking around the house to the back door. The yard is a sigh for sore eyes, mud everywhere, a broken train half-hidden underneath the van that permanently occupies the garden. She half-expects to see Frank passed out inside of it, but the van looks empty, and she shakes her head while walking up the steps.

Mandy only hesitates for a second or two before she raises her hand and rapidly knocks. She doesn't even know if anyone is home at this time of the day, but she has to try. “Coming, coming,” she hears someone say, then, “fuck!” A few seconds later, she's staring at Lip's face.

“Weren't you at college?” she asks.

“Liam's sick,” he explains and steps aside. “Don't trip over the shoes – I just did.” He shuts the door behind her when she steps inside, suddenly feeling awkward, because the last thing he said to her was, “Look, can you leave? I'm pretty busy right now – and I thought you had a boyfriend?”

Liam whines in the corner from his playpen, and Lip bows forward to pick him up. With his little brother balancing on his hip, he turns back to her. “Was there anything you wanted?”

“Not really,” she sighs and sits down at the kitchen table, which is covered in textbooks and stray paper. “Not anything you can help with, anyway.”

“Yeah?” Lip asks, sitting down next to her, bouncing Liam a little on his lap before settling him against his chest.

“I told Mickey,” she elaborates. “About Ian.”

“What'd he say?”

“That fucker went and got his memory wiped.”

“For real?” Lip at least has the decency to look surprised.

“He didn't even know who Ian was when I mentioned him. That's the only thing that explains it.”

Lip wipes some drool off Liam's chin before he looks back up. “Maybe... maybe he just wanted to get past it, you know? Can't be hung up on the same guy forever.”

Mandy raises an eyebrow. “You sure we're talking about my brother now?” Lip shrugs, but he's smiling at her anyway. “So, you think I should do anything?”

“Why? He's the one that messed it up. You don't have to run after him and fix it.”

“I just hate looking at him now.” Mandy leans back in her chair. “He's my brother, but also not.” She pauses before adding, “Ian was good for him.”

“But was Mickey good for Ian?” Lip's answer leaves her thinking, but before she can reply, Debbie storms into the house, throwing her backpack onto the floor.

“Carl ruins everything!” she shouts, before stomping up the stairs. Her brother enters the house after her, smirking to himself.

“What'd you do?” Lip asks. Liam's woken up again from all the commotion, and whines in Lip's arms.

“Man-man,” he says, reaching his arms out for Mandy.

“Can you take him for a minute?” Lip asks, and puts him on her lap before she can even nod her agreement. “Hey, I asked you a question! What'd you do to upset Debbie?” Lip runs up the stairs after Carl, and she can hear them talking, but can't make out the words.

Liam feels warm to her touch, and she stands up with him still in her arms to try and find him a blanket. The best thing she learned about fevers was that you just had to sweat it all out. Besides, if Liam is just as tough as his other siblings, he'll make it out fine. She grabs his blanket from out of his playpen, and walks over to the couch while she wraps him in it.

She's not too sure what to do with the kid, though. She's the youngest of the Milkovich siblings, and while she doubts her brothers have ever looked after her, that means she's never had a younger sibling to after. Liam curiously raises his hands and pats her cheek, smiling broadly at her. How Lip got such a cute brother, she'll never know.

“Sorry for just dumping him on you,” Lip says as he comes down the stairs.

“It's fine,” she replies, even as Liam manages to get some spit in her hair, snot running from his nose. Lip leans forward over the backseat and wipes his face with a wayward tissue. “Better than sitting at home anyway,” she adds.

“That bad?” He sits down next to her, taking Liam from her arms who yawns widely.

“Dad was dragged off to jail again, Mickey is never home, that bitch wife of his keeps complaining...”

“So, the usual,” he says, with a wink.

“I guess.” She grins. “Same here, right?”

“Yep.” Lip brushes his hand through Liam's hair, who has drifted off on his lap. “Fiona's at her job, Debbie and Carl are fighting like normal siblings, and Ian...”

“Will be back soon,” she says. “Did he tell you where he went? When he called you?”

“Nope,” Lip says. “If it's up to him, he probably won't tell anyone either. Now, little man,” he addresses Liam, “I'm putting you to bed. Thanks for stopping by,” he tells Mandy. “You're welcome to stay for dinner, if you want?”

“No, it's fine,” she says, “I should probably check in at home anyway, see if they haven't burned down the house yet.” He nods, and while he walks up the stairs, she leaves through the front door.

She doesn't see her brother much the following week. He's always gone when she's home, making deals or drinking at the Alibi (or so Svetlana says when she finally asks her).

Mandy's halfway through a lit cigarette when Mickey comes stumbling into the house, leaning heavily against the door while he fumbles with his key. He drops it several times before he even notices her watching him. He's been gone for three days, and she's sick of watching him run in and out of this life. He pretends he and his wife are a nice and happy family when he's here, and doesn't even know her name when he's out on the streets. She's noticed him come home smelling like cheap aftershave more than once, and today is no exception.

“The fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at her, throwing himself on the couch next to her.

“Not at your stupid face,” she mutters, angrily stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. “I just have to watch you fuck up over and over, not that you're doing shit about it. How does your wife feel about you being gone so often?”

“None of your business,” Mickey says – she's obviously been giving him crap about it. Mickey's not a loyal and dutiful husband, anyone who's taken one look at him gets that. It's a thing Mickey himself seems to forget, though. She's seen him passing weed back and forth with Svetlana, could hear them arguing once about what the colour of the baby room should be. (But Mickey, being Mickey, refuses to even touch a paintbrush. And Svetlana won't either, claiming the fumes would be bad for the baby.)

“You gonna stop being angry anytime soon?” she asks, finally, dragging her legs underneath her.

“'M not angry, just...” He leans his head backwards on the couch, in a rare moment of honesty.

“Being a huge dickwad to everyone who comes close enough?” she fills in.

“Fuck off,” he says, but grins anyway. “You seen where Svetlana went?”

Mandy shrugs. “She's probably asleep in your room.” Mickey struggles getting himself off the couch. “Hey, how'd you manage to knock her up, anyway?”

He stares at her for a moment, his hand on the armrest steadying. “I...” He looks confused, momentarily. “I don't know? Man, I must've been really drunk.” Mandy shakes her head when he turns his back to her. Drunk, of course. As if she's ever seen her brother with a woman – besides his wife, that is, and she hasn't once heard them going at it.

He disappears out of the living room, and behind her she hears his door shut, quietly tonight. Ian's coming home tomorrow, and Mickey has no idea who she even means when she mentions her best friend's name. If she ever wants to see her brother happy – or as close to happy as Milkoviches can get – Mandy figures she'll have to take matters into her own hands.

 


	3. Ian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's DONE! Sorry for the late update, I just had to go through edits and it took longer than I expected it would. (I am a lazy bum. :P)

 

Ian would be lying if he said he hadn't missed the south side. It's where he grew up, after all. He knows what's behind every corner, what to expect from the people there. Most importantly: it's where his family is.

He's standing in front of the house, something like that swirling around inside his stomach, his bag hanging from one shoulder. He's about to make the decision, when someone else already does it for him. The door swings open, and Fiona's face brightens when she sees him standing outside. “Ian!”

“Hi,” he awkwardly says, shuffling his feet a bit. Fiona wastes no time in rushing down the steps, and wraps him in her arms as soon as she's reached him. “You're home!” she says, breathlessly. “We were so worried about you, why didn't you call, or text?”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. I just... needed some time. To think about stuff.”

“You could've talked to us, any of us.” She cradles his face between her hands, and looks at him worriedly. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, “you wanna go inside?” Only then does Fiona seem to notice she's still wearing slippers.

They enter the house side by side, and the rest is sitting at the breakfast table, stealing cutlery and toast from each other's plates. Debbie is running around in a frenzy, “Who's seen Liam's sippy cup?”

“It's in the sink,” Fiona points out, and the people at the kitchen table look up as one man. Debbie almost sprints into the living room to give Ian a hug, and the rest is all grinning. Ian puts his hand on top of Debbie's head, and smiles at his family. He's been gone for over four months, and he's missed all of them so much.

They make their into the kitchen and Lip says, “Good to have you back man,” while Carl asks him if he killed anyone in the army, and if that was why he left it?

“I didn't kill anyone,” Ian says, pretending to be offended. He leans further forward and whispers in Carl's ear, “Did maim a few guys, though.” His brother grins at him, and starts licking the jelly that was on his toast from his fingers.

“Ew, gross,” Debbie groans.

“Do you want anything?” Fiona asks. “Coffee? Breakfast?”

“Sounds great!” Ian says, taking his place at the table, next to Lip.

It's the first normal breakfast he's had in _months_. He notices them throwing worried looks in his direction when they think he isn't paying attention, and he knows they've been concerned... It's just something he had to do. He hopes they'll be able to understand that, one day.

Soon enough, Debbie and Carl are out the door, and Fiona is putting on her coat to go to work – she's still working at the cup company, apparently. “Look after yourself,” she tells Ian, before kissing him on the head. “I'll be back around six.” She picks Liam up who she's been getting ready all this time. “See you tonight!”

“So, where've you been all this time?” Lip breaks the silence.

“Around,” Ian replies. “Worked some odd jobs, couch surfed.” He shrugs. “But I'm back now.”

“You going back to school?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure yet.”

“Well, you know Fiona's been on my case about graduating. She'll probably do the same to you. After interrogating you, of course.”

Ian chuckles. “That'd be just like her, wouldn't it? I've missed this, you know.” He glances sideways at his brother, who was looking at him intently. “I missed all of you.”

Lip stands up and starts collecting the plates. “Then maybe you shouldn't have left in the first place.” Ian is left alone in the kitchen when he has collected all the dishes in the sink and Lip disappears upstairs. He knows he should explain himself, somehow, but he doesn't think any of them would understand. Not right now, anyway. Besides, when he looks around the kitchen he can see they've been able to handle themselves without him. They don't really need him. He sighs, and puts his head in his hands. Maybe he's made the wrong decision to come back.

He can hear Lip rummaging upstairs, and after a while he comes back downstairs, a bag over his shoulder. “I'm off to class,” he says, “don't break down the house while I'm gone.”

“You know I won't,” Ian replies, shaking his head. Everyone probably still has to get used to his presence again. So does he – he has to get used to being home again. Lip darts out the front door, and Ian finally stands up, slowly walking up the stairs, taking in every detail he thinks he might have forgotten over the months. Shoes are still scattered over the steps, ready for someone to trip over.

His old room is across the landing, and it's just the way he remembers it; the lock he installed on it a while ago is still in place. Without any of the other Gallaghers in the house, the place is quiet, and he sits down on the bed. His bed. The sheets are all messed up, so he assumes someone else slept in it last night. Carl maybe, or Liam.

Not that it really matters. Now that he's back, he'll sleep in here again. Things will go back to normal – at least, he hopes they will. He can-- he can go back to school, if he wants to. They'll have family dinners, and Frank will come busting in halfway through, demanding money for his next drink at the bar. Carl will set his toys on fire in the microwave, Debbie will make sure everything runs correctly, bless her. After, he might check in at the Kash and Grab, and Mickey-- he stops there. Mickey doesn't even know that Ian is back. He swallows a lump in his throat and brushes his hand through his hair; it's longer than he remembers it being. Isn't this all just a brand new start, for everyone? Ian knows that Mickey is the reason he left. Or if not the reason, at least he was the catalyst.

He's less angry now, though. He's not as hurt, although he can't help but feel a twitch in his gut whenever he thinks about Mickey, and his marriage to the pregnant prostitute. It's like someone had forced him to swallow broken glass that day, churning until his insides felt just as broken as his head did. Before he came home today, he had resolved not to go looking for Mickey, but now... He just isn't sure anymore. If he's honest, he's missed Mickey just as much as his family – if not more. He's missed his voice and his swears and his bare skin underneath his hands, hasn't even realised how much until he sits there in his room reminiscing about the past.

He'd needed to get on that bus, to leave everything behind for a while. A week in, he had realised the army wasn't going to work out. He was too distracted by his feelings of guilt and anger to be able to focus on anything. He'd left the training camp, and hadn't looked back since. He hadn't wanted to go home like that, though, running back to a safe place with a metaphorical tail between his legs. He wanted to prove that he could take care of himself, to be safe, and most importantly, _happy_ without anyone else there.

He had come home because he'd felt ready, confident that he was back in control now of both his actions and his emotions. He isn't so sure now, when a few words from his brother can already throw him off. He just has to face his fears head on, he decides. There'll be no point in avoiding Mickey; they live in the same neighbourhood for fuck's sake, of course he's going to run into him.

Resolutely, he stands up. He's not going to go looking for Mickey, but a run in is going to be inevitable. It's only best if he's prepared for it.

When he leaves the house, he locks the door behind him. No use in sitting inside all the time. He wants to see what Kev and V have been up to these last couple of months, and the Alibi is his best bet for that.

Ian jogs most of the way there, enjoying the adrenaline rush. It's cold this April morning, and his breath comes out of his mouth in puffy clouds. He's never cold, however, the run keeping him pleasantly warm.

“Hey Kev,” he says when he opens the door. There's only one man sitting at the bar, and it's not Frank Gallagher.

“Ian, my man!” Kev opens his arms wide. “No one told me you'd be back today!”

“It was kinda spur of the moment,” Ian says, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He takes a seat at the bar, but the man at the end doesn't even look up, despite all the commotion. “Only Lip knew I was coming back.”

“Well, I'm glad for one,” Kev says, “you want a beer on the house?”

He pauses for a second. “Yeah, why not?”

“Good, good,” Kev says, pouring him a beer straight from the tap. “So how've you been? We hadn't heard from you in months, everyone was freaking worried, man.”

“I know, sorry.” Ian ducks his head, and immediately takes a sip from his beer when Kev offers it to him. No matter what Frank says, beer before ten is definitely not his thing. He shudders lightly and puts the glass back on the counter. “I've been around. I met this guy on the El, Tom, and he had a place where I could stay. Turned out he was some kind of... handyman, and I helped him out with some jobs.”

“Oh yeah?” Kev asks, running his fingertip over a clean glass. “This Tom, you and he ever...?”

“What?” Ian asks, grinning. “Hooked up?” He knows Kev knows about him, and he's not too worried about anything getting out when no one else is here. “He was married.”

“From what I've heard, that hasn't stopped you before.” Kev winks at him before he goes to give the other customer another drink.

“So, how's V?” Ian asks when Kev has directed his attention back to him.

“She's great, we both are!” He nods to himself. “We're expecting, actually.”

“Really? Congratulations!” He knows how badly V and Kev wanted a kid of their own after Ethel disappeared. “You know yet if it's gonna be a boy or girl?”

“We're keeping it a surprise. Or V wanted to, anyway, and I can't really say no to her.” Ian shakes his head, grinning to himself. V's got Kevin wrapped around her finger, but it's not as if Kev minds. It's hard to imagine them not being in love with each other.

“Have I missed anything else?” He tries to sound casual about it, like he would be happy with any scrap of news, but the truth is that he wants to hear only about one person.

“Well,” Kev says thoughtfully, “there was that one time where Carl almost set fire to our kitchen – I told V, you have to lock the door, but of course that sneak managed to get in anyway.”

“Sounds like Carl.”

“I always thought that kid was less subtle than that. Maybe there's more to him than we realised.” He shrugged. “Ah well. You finished with that glass?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He'd finished the beer without even noticing it. “I should probably get going,” he said, although he wasn't sure yet where he would go next.

Kev swiped the glass off the counter. “It was nice to see you, Ian. Glad to see you're okay.”

“Me too,” Ian mumbled, and stepped back out into the cold.

The next few days the Gallaghers all seemed to slip back into their own routine, Ian's younger siblings getting used to him being there again, although he still caught Fiona sending him fond looks every now and then. It was obvious that sooner rather than later, he was going to run into Mickey. He just hadn't expected it to be _this_ soon.

He first spots Mickey on the other side of the road with a cigarette clenched between his lips while he counts some bills. Ian has to resist the urge to shout out, to let his presence be known. Eventually Mickey stuffs the bills in his coat pocket and flattens the cig underneath the sole of his shoe before he disappears into an alley, out of Ian's view.

It takes him only a second or two to cross the street himself, half-jogging in order to avoid the oncoming traffic. When he peers into the alleyway, Mickey is gone. Since there's only one entryway, and a fence halfway through, Ian assumes that's where Mickey slipped inside. The sound of a crash resonates between the buildings, and seconds later he hears some yelling before the doorway slams open again and Mickey storms out, wiping angrily at a bloody lip. “Fuckers,” Ian hears him say, even after he's retreated behind the corner.

He feels exhilarated, excited – not scared, not like that time when Mickey had chased him with his brothers, thinking he'd screwed Mandy over. This is a whole different kind of excitement. A grin tugs at the edges of his mouth – any moment now.

He hears the telltale noise of feet sliding over the pavement, turns his head, and watches Mickey stalk straight past him, not even looking in his direction. He feels his mouth open and close a few times, while his legs are frozen to the sidewalk. Just like that, Mickey walks out of his life again, ignorant of his surroundings, of Ian's inner turmoil.

“Hey!” he says, his mouth finally catching up to his brain. “Hey, Mickey!”

Ian is back, finally, and the first words Mickey speak to him are, “The fuck do you want?”

“I just saw you cross the street,” Ian says, suddenly feeling nervous, because that look Mickey is giving him, it isn't the same as he remembers him. Appreciative, but carefully hidden under a thick layer of fuck with me and die.

“That's what people do, cross streets,” Mickey says, looking annoyed. “Is there anything you want? I'm kinda busy.” He looked Ian up and down once. “You don't look as if you need me to beat someone up for you, big guy.”

“No, I just... wondered if you...”

“Spit it out, carrot head. You think I got all day?”

“Well, it's been a while since we've seen each other, right?” Ian tries, and Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“The hell are you talking about? I've never seen you in my life.” Next to anger, Ian also spots apprehension, Mickey's eyes darting left and right. “Fuck off, I don't want to deal with this crap this early in the morning.”

“Mickey--” Ian reaches out, intending to stop Mickey from turning around, and he should've known. He's violently shoved back against the wall, Mickey getting up close and to the point. “You listen to me, you pussy ass, I ain't no fag, and if you know what's best for you, neither are you.” Ian breathes in slowly, and Mickey steps back, his hands shaking the tiniest bit. “Fuck off, before I kick in your ugly face.”

Ian doesn't need to be told that twice. Mickey isn't the only one who can't stop himself from shaking; Ian's knees feel like jelly. The smell of copper had been bright on Mickey's breath, dried blood on his lips between the bristles of dark hair. Do they even know each other anymore? He wonders, and worries, and in the dead of night he knows what he saw. That spark of recognition in Mickey's eyes, even if he hadn't known Ian's name.

 

*

 

Someone is insistently knocking on their front door, and no one is getting up to open it. Ian turns around in bed, and contemplates burying his head underneath his pillow. Whoever it is, they've been standing on the Gallagher's porch for at least ten minutes, and they aren't planning on leaving anytime soon, Ian suspects. With a muffled groan, he rolls over, placing his bare feet on the floor, and picks up a t-shirt that doesn't seem to be too dirty.

It's no wonder that no one opened the door; everyone else has gone off to work or school, without saying goodbye. The incessant knocking hasn't stopped and Ian groans while he drags himself to the front door. Usually he'd be up by this time, but it got a little late with Lip last night and he probably hadn't fallen asleep until 4 am.

Whoever he had been expecting when he opens the door, it certainly isn't Mandy and Mickey Milkovich. They don't say anything for a moment; Mandy has her hand still raised to knock on the door, while Mickey has buried his own into his pockets, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Your siblings aren't?” Mandy asks, and he nods. She doesn't need more invitation than that, and he barely has the time to step aside before she enters the house. Mickey dawdles on the porch for a moment, before he sighs and follows her inside.

Ian takes all this in, feeling slightly confused. He spoke to Mandy last night, but they hadn't even mentioned Mickey – she'd just needed a shoulder to lean on after breaking up with Kenyatta.

“So, why are you here?” Ian asks, trying to casually lean against the banister of the stairs. “Family outing?”

“If you can call it that,” Mandy says, and gestures for Mickey to sit down on the couch. Ian doesn't really get it, why they're here – Mickey obviously had no desire to see him, he'd made that much clear when he shoved him against a wall. “I shouldn't be doing this, but if I'd leave it up to Mickey he'd still be avoiding you next year.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey mutters, crossing his arms.

“Because,” Mandy continues, undeterred, “you two need to talk. I don't care about what, as long as you don't kill each other.” She moves back to the front door, and turns back. “Sorry for springing this on you, Ian. But you know my brother, maybe better than I do. He just... He doesn't know you anymore.”

Mickey is uncharacteristically quiet as Mandy leaves, doesn't even protest her words, which is odd to Ian. He's trying not to let on that he's uncomfortable, but with the way he's fidgeting on their couch it's hard to hide.

“So,” Ian says, because he has to start the conversation _somewhere_ , “got wiped, huh?”

“Guess so,” Mickey says, and glances sidewards at Ian. “That's what Mandy keeps saying.”

“Mandy, huh?” Ian drops down on the couch next to Mickey. “You believe her?”

“About you?” Mickey laughs – and it's the first time Ian's heard him laugh, with his mouth wide open, the nerves drained from his body. It doesn't even matter what he's laughing about, because it's beautiful. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess I believe her.”

Ian wonders what Mickey sees, what he thought when he laid eyes on him for the second first time. It's not a second chance, far from it, but Ian knows Mickey, that he doesn't give a shit about what people think. Except when it comes to Ian, apparently. In some way, he thinks he should feel upset about it, that Mickey would want to cut him out of his life – but when you cut something out, it has to be part of you in the first place.

“You and I, huh?” Mickey says.

“You and me,” Ian repeats.

“How'd that happen anyway? I didn't accidentally fall onto your cock, right?”

“Well...” Ian slowly says, and Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Let's say it did happen very unexpectedly. I approached you with a crow bar, you punched me in the face, and the rest is history.”

“For you,” Mickey points out, “I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.”

“If you hadn't gotten your ass to one of those backward clinics, you'd still know,” Ian snaps back. “You'd know about the wedding, and that time when I got placed in foster care, and why you went to juvie, _twice_.”

“So I didn't get arrested because of a fucking Snickers bar?”

“You did,” Ian deadpans. “And it's still your own fault.”

Mickey bites the side of his lip while he thinks. “I don't remember any of this,” he admits. The Mickey Ian first got to know, the one stealing from the Kash and Grab, the Mickey that hadn't gone to juvie yet; he never would've admitted that. “Not you, or any of the shit Mandy said we did.”

“Want to do anything about it?” Ian asks, despite knowing that a wipe is irreversible. It's not what he means, anyway.

“You got any beer?”

“In the fridge, why?”

“Cause I have the feeling I'm gonna need a drink or two before we get any further, firecrotch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, and then I wrote an ambiguous ending because I didn't want to take things too quickly. If you want to me to write a sequel or something (or just want to kick my butt for ending it here xD), you can send me a message on my tumblr. [southern-winterking](http://southern-winterking.tumblr.com)


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